


The Lie Of It All

by Elenscaie (EroticAsphyxia)



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angry Spencer Reid, Angst, Episode: s02e15 Revelations, Episode: s07e02 Proof, Ficlet, Gen, Hurt Spencer Reid, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, References to Drugs, Sad Spencer Reid, Stream of Consciousness, bastard can't catch a break, look everything just sucks for him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23833444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EroticAsphyxia/pseuds/Elenscaie
Summary: Spencer cannot fathom it still, the lie of losing Emily, and his thoughts offer no solace. His mind has no answer. Only exhaustion.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 66





	The Lie Of It All

_What if I started taking Dilaudid again?_

_What if_ , indeed. Spencer can’t stand it, the knowing of what was and the not-knowing of what could have been. He fucking mourned, they all mourned, but it was him who came to JJ crying, breaking and already broken, battering himself up against the cliff-edge of unrelenting grief. He came to her for some semblance of solace. For some—fuck, if it was an attempt at closure, then it was one mocked and trampled underfoot.

The lie of it all scrambles him through like an electrical fire. Emily dying. No more laughing and joking and sharing the stories made moment by moment between them. His family, never to be together again, _together and alive and whole_ —

It’s a lie stumbling over on itself. It’s a lie made partially truth.

He walks away. Storms off and leaves them behind, JJ with her senseless apologies— _I’m sorry_ —ringing like gunfire pummeling too close to his ears, ringing entirely _too little_ , _too late_ , like that’s all it takes to soothe the agony-loss of his very self, of his damned soul, a shard of it splintered off, spent up into bitter smoke—

He knows down to his bones that his family may never be whole again.

Not with the phantom song of Dilaudid weaving itself within the blood-trenches of his body like so much divine intervention.

_You didn’t._

Somehow. Somehow, he didn’t. _Somehow_ , some way, he managed to stave off the craving for calm, for quietude.

 _For silence_.

And even if he did, who would have seen it? Who would have guessed? It’s not like they tried to help when it was oh-so obvious, back when he crawled away from his would-be grave and snuck the tiny innocuous-seeming bottles from a body still warm away with him—because what the hell did it matter?

_Yeah, but I thought about it._

He’s always losing parts of himself. This is nothing new. Just another facet of himself crushed and crumbling in drifts of black ash.

It isn’t so like a stranger now as it is a friend. At least he can count on that much. The inevitability of it.

So he leaves. He leaves and he lets the pieces of himself lost to Fate’s fickle—manipulative, mercurial, merciless—whims wither away, whispering their death knells upon the police station floor.


End file.
